


festive overture

by leamandine



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8204408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leamandine/pseuds/leamandine
Summary: Kevin and Jean accidentally reunite before their teams play. They actively avoid the conversation they should be having by engaging in Exy smack talk.





	

It was early, yes, but it was not too early to be on the court. It was about getting the lay of the land; about finding advantages to use later. 

So, yes, it was early. Dawn, or slightly after. But Kevin Day had never been the kind of player to show up on time. He showed up before. He set the standard. He was about runs at the cusp of sunrise; drills repeated—over and over and over and over—as cicadas grew as loud as drums. 

He circled the court with a slow, easy jog. He was looking for imperfections, or variations. It was unlikely since this was a professional-level court, and since this game was going to be one of the biggest of the seasons. Colorado against Seattle—the two highest ranked teams, both undefeated. It was exciting Exy. It was the kind of game that a creature like Kevin Day thrived on. 

But for now, he just jogged. In his earbuds was Shostakovich’s Festive Overture turned up loud. 

That, and the dimmed lights, was probably why Kevin did not notice Jean until he’d run past him. When he realized he had company, he at first reacted with a kind of low-grade paranoia that was mostly absent from his psyche, except for rare moments like this when he was caught surprised.

But, regardless: enter Jean. 

Kevin slowed to a stop, hesitating a moment before turning on his heel and pocketing his earbuds. Usually other humans warranted less than this—maybe he’d grant them half his attention—but this was different. 

It had been a long time since it had been this: Kevin Day and Jean Moreau, together on a court, alone but for lights and empty stands and the light hum of centralized air. Jean was an inch taller, arms crossed over his chest, brown eyes narrowed slightly. When he saw Kevin approach he swallowed hard but resisted the urge to step back, and then step back again. No. He would stand; he had a right to this ground, to this stance.

“Jean,” said Kevin. He opened his mouth to say more, half extended his hand; then closed his mouth, then pulled back his hand. “I’m looking forward to our game today.”

It was a pathetic—infinitely pathetic—way to begin, but what else was he to say? What else was he to say, after years and years of saying almost nothing, of communicating through proxies, of respecting distance. Of moving on. Of moving up and away.

“It will be good to have a challenge,” Jean volleyed back. Kevin felt his heart constrict just slightly at hearing his voice, his French accent lilting his words. It sounded familiar. It sounded—

(--Please, Kevin, please, I will do anything, I will work harder, I will work so hard but please talk to him—he will listen to you, he WILL, they come into my room at night and—)

“I’d argue that Carolina was a challenge last week,” Kevin said, ignoring anything other than the Game at Hand, the Game in Question. There was no room for anything else, not if he was going to stand here and have a conversation with Jean. It could spiral so quickly. “You guys only got two past Minyard. And only because they have no decent backliners. Your strikers are iffy at best. I don’t think MacAllister’s talents matches the hype.”

Jean licked his bottom lip and cocked his head slightly. “Perhaps,” he said, and he released a bit of the tension in one of his shoulders, just slightly. “We are a defensive team. We are not flashy, this is not our concern.” 

Kevin had to let out a hoarse chuckle at that. “I’m not flashy,” he retorted, half rolling his eyes. “I’m playing well. I’m getting the ball where it needs to go, which will be past your defense in a few hours.”

“Perhaps,” said Jean again. He was playing with something on his finger and it caught Kevin’s attention, if only because he was so attuned to Jean’s body language. Jean noticed his attention, froze, dropped his hands to his side, bowed his head slightly. Acquiescing. Old habits died hard. 

“Knox and you?” Kevin asked, in a gruff, matter-of-fact sort of manner. Jean nodded once, still staring at the ground. Kevin remembered—

(—TIE HIM DOWN! That’s it, Kevin—tie him down. Now, you—you know what I want you to do. TIE HIM DOWN, Kevin—wouldn’t want our little Frenchman to miss out on this, would we—)

“When was the wedding?” he asked, for some reason. As soon as the question was out, he flushed red and wanted to take it back. Jean frowned and mumbled something about California and a small crowd and Kevin remembered quite vividly, quite belatedly, that he’d chosen to not be a part of his life, that they had chosen to not have lives that touched. Not anymore. Not when their lives had touched so violently, so horrifically—

(—Kevin, please, please, please you have to help me—he’s going to send them in and they’re going to—I don’t want to—I-I will do anything, please, please, talk to Riko, change his mind, please—)

“Congratulations,” Kevin said after a silence so heavy it would crush buildings under its weight. Jean said nothing, but his head rose. His eyes found something in the distance and he pretended to study it. Kevin ran a hand over his head and blew out his breath. “Jean, I—if you ever want to…we could get a drink. We—Riko has been dead for five years and-,”

“-I am here only to set up for some drills for my team,” Jean interrupted. There was a slight, almost indecipherable waver to his voice. A small crack in his armor. Kevin knew how to make it widen, how to break it down, how to strip this man to nothing. “You were not supposed to have access. I requested special permission.” 

Kevin blinked. “Jean,” he tried again. He wanted to say: How strange it is that we are strangers now. I’ve known you since we were children. I’ve watched them brutalize you. I’ve watched you bleed. I’ve caused you to bleed. I think about it at night, when I hear your name, when I see our old teammates, when I drive through West Virginia. I remember the sounds and the smells and your cries and I thought you would die long before we reached the age we are now. 

Instead he said: “I really think we’re going to win today. My offensive line is strong, and we’ve watched all of the footage available. I know your style. Your goalkeeper is a rookie, and frankly if it wasn’t for you, there’s no way in hell you guys would be undefeated.”

Jean gave no indication that he was offended by this assessment. He shrugged once, unconcerned. “We’ve faced strong strikers,” he replied, thinking about how he’d managed to nearly shut out Neil Josten a few weeks ago. The sportscasters were still talking about it. 

Kevin snorted. “Not like this,” he shot back. There was a pause, and then Kevin remembered what he’d meant to say. “They’re starting to recruit for Court, for the Rome Olympics. Has your agent talked to you-,”

“-Yes,” Jean said quietly. 

Kevin nodded. He had no doubt they would both make Court. “It’s been a long time since it’s been the two of us on a team together,” he said. This felt weighty, significant, emotional, but he lacked the capacity to fully appreciate why. “I look forward to it.”

Jean met his gaze. “Do you?” he asked, in a strange tone that was part curiosity, part skepticism, part polite interest. Kevin wasn’t sure how to respond. He half nodded, half shrugged. “Ah,” said Jean, playing with the ring on his finger again. “Yes. I look forward to this, too.” 

Kevin swallowed. Rolled his shoulders. “Good luck today, Jean,” he said. Then he jogged away.


End file.
